After the Battle
by Raphael di Buonarroti
Summary: The final battle is over and Draco has gone into hidding. Harry is conflicted about his feelings for Draco. Should this love continue or can Draco be trusted. But all the While Draco is in terribel danger...


Rain splattered on his bare arms and skittered down his hair. The water seemed thicker than

usual and he soon realised why - he was standing beneath a leaky drain pipe the cracked black

plastic in glassy shards with mouldy sewage gushing over his wet head between the open slits of

shattered pieces above. He curled his lip up in disgust. Wringing his sloppy hair out with numb

hands he stepped aside he continued walking.

His jacket hung heavily on his form-the denim dragged his shoulders down so much so that this

undignified stoop caused a dull ache around the base of his neck.

This irritation caused him to curse his momentary act of generosity.

"Damn that bloody," he furiously trying to spit out the right insult "cat woman!" a feeble excuse

for one and added to try and redeem himself "and all her bloody cats!" the latter was said

through gritted teeth.

He glowered at the pavement in anger. He caught his reflection in a puddle-at one glance he

could see all that was needed, he was a drowned rat!

Bedraggled and agitated he began walking faster under the unrelenting rain.

Droplets hung off his nose and the tips of his fingers. His hands stung from the cold, too stiff to

even clench in anger of the weather. And his thin cotton t shirt stuck unceremoniously to his

slender form, saturated from the torrent of fruit from the ever blackening sky. The jacket flapped

in the wind, the shear bulk of the added mass slapping his defenceless skin mercilessly causing

him to wince and crumple his features.

His darkly coloured pants were too soaked, a pulled dangerously downwards, the material clung

to his skin, his hips and thighs. It irritated his legs and he could feel the burning sensation of a

nasty rash in between his inner thigh.

His dimly aware of the presences around him as he neared the overshadowing building in front

of him. A stray dog eyed him cautiously, circling his corner where it slept; it looked almost as

bad as he did.

A couple of hard blokes walked a fair distance away from him, one clutched a bottle of iffy

looking drink and the other was scampering round him trying to grab it for long enough to get a

swig, _knuckle dragging buffoons_ he thought to himself.

Everything around him was grey even the crack whore who stood lopsidedly against the side of

the vomit covered skip-was dull.

She opened her mouth, her foul stench invading his nostrils. She smelled like cat urine, and

mixed with were own filth provided a powerful solution to a hang over. He screwed up his face

in the violation of his senses and tried to stop the bile rising. The overpowering stink of her filthy

rotting shell forced him to look away, repulsed.

Ahead of him lay a grim prospect, an ugly grey, shapeless rectangle rose out of the desolate

waste land of worn and weary tarmac, overflowing bins and tattered carrier bags.

"Want me ta suck it for ya mister?" she said lurching and stumbling forward, she grinned at him,

barring her decaying teeth and shoving the empty space where the divider of her now one nostril

used to be. It was a sad attempt to get inside his pants, and his wallet.

He glanced her up and down; his eyes cold and empty only judgement could be seen. Some

would feel pity for her, he didn't. She was ugly and grotesque to him. And she knew it, but the

drugs banged into her cancelled out any shame she could feel and thus any emotion was

eradicated. Leaving an inhuman wretch.

It was hideous, but that is what everything is like without innocence. And hers was no part of her

now and lost forever, it didn't matter how she lost it, the point was it was gone and she'd filled

up the hole with crack and filthy men.

She would never be worthy of anything.

Gutter rat!

Under the flickering and failing street lights he kicked open the battered door, bashing his bags

haphazardly against his poor shines on the sullied walls.

Reaching for the lift, he stopped abruptly. He jabbed the button and scowled at the doors

impatiently.

Several minutes past, he looked up. No mechanical clanking of the lift making its monotonous

descend down to him could be heard. His eyes narrowed the unmistakable flash of

uncontrollable rage in his glare.

He turned sharply and began his indignant ascent. And it was no meagre task climbing the stairs.

Hard cold floors gave a resonating echo as he clattered noisily upwards. The steepness soon

chipped away at his resilience-energy draining away.

His arms ached from the weight of the bags. His hands burned as the cheap handles of the carrier

bags sliced into his palms.

The bags were strained under the heavy cans; tiny splits began appearing ripping the plastic,

holes threatened to surface.

Wearily two flights melted behind him. Higher and higher he climbed.

The steps growing ever dirtier and the walls changed from a range of, white, off-white, to yellow,

brown and finally black, as the dirt slowly making its way up from the skirting boards.

Again he could smell the sickening stench reeking of piss and very old sweat. It was choking.

He stuck to the middle of the path so as not to even risk coming into contact with the walls

stained by drunken old men.

Revulsion never left him in this place.


End file.
